Beginner Floriculture
by lobsterwife
Summary: britta is his constant; darkest timeline jeff/britta


**Title**: Beginner Floriculture

**Summary**: _Britta is his constant_; Darkest Timeline Jeff/Britta

**Notes**: Technically a companion piece to Psychopathology. Jeff and Britta are having their own problems. I've never really written for either of these characters, or this pairing, so pardon me if I don't do them justice.

* * *

It used to be like this:

His face was the first thing people saw. His looks were an ice-breaker, a conversation starter. People were drawn to him because of his good looks, wit, aftershave, like bees to honey. He could make people listen. He could command a room with a wave of his hand, a flash of white teeth.

Then the accident happens.

He's confined to a hospital bed, just him and the stump where his right arm used to be. Sometimes he still feels it. Phantom limb, the doctor tells him. It hurts like a bitch, especially when it's raining. He listens to the rain hit the window, _tat-tat-tat-tat_. It's hard to sleep.

There's pity in the eyes of every nurse who fixes his pillows. They talk down to him like he's an invalid, a child, someone who's five seconds away from completely losing it. They treat him like a bomb, and they're not sure which wire to cut. Red or blue? Either way he's about to explode.

He resents them all. Every last one of them glances at his stump before leaving with their kind words and false encouragement.

One day he sees a huge basket of flowers standing in the doorway of his room. The basket moves, almost toppling over, before being set on the floor next to his bed. Britta Perry lets out a long, tired sigh, stretching out her back.

"Some hospital. Can you believe the elevator wasn't working? I had to walk up five flights of stairs carrying that stupid thing. No one even bothered to help me."

He ignores her. What is _she_ doing here? Seeing her only brings up bad memories. The pain starts up again, shooting up the arm he doesn't have. He grimaces, hoping she doesn't notice.

"Are you okay?" Britta asks, inching closer to his bed. She reaches out to touch his shoulder, but hesitates. "Hey, do you want me to get anyone?"

"No," he snaps through clenched teeth. "Why are you even here?"

Britta rolls her eyes. "Jeez. Rude, much? I'm here because you're in the hospital, and friends visit friends when they're in the hospital."

For some reason he feels an intense relief wash over him. He would never admit it out loud - it's difficult even admitting it to himself - but at times he wonders if the others will stay together considering what happened. He wonders if they have forgotten about him.

"You should be happy," Britta says. She picks up the flower basket, moving it to the foot of the bed, so he can get a better look at it. "I brought one for Troy yesterday, but he wasn't awake when I went to see him."

You're the heart of this group, he had said to her once. It's still true. She's staying strong for all of them.

"I would have visited earlier, but Shirley needs me," Britta explains. "Between you and me, she's starting to fall off the wagon and… I'm worried about her."

"She's drinking again?"

Britta sighs. "I guess it's her way of dealing with what happened. I'm trying to make her stop, but she's refuses to listen to me."

He can't imagine Shirley doing something like that. Not with her kids depending on her, and all that talk about starting her own business. She's throwing her life away so easily. They all are.

"How's…" he pauses, taking a deep breath. He doesn't want to ask. The answer will hurt more than the pain in his invisible arm. "How's everyone else?"

"Troy's in a room upstairs. He had to get his larynx taken out. Dumbass" Britta shakes her head, smiling ruefully. "Abed's doing okay. At least I think he is. I try to visit him every chance I can get, but so far all he does is watch movies in the apartment with the lights off. And poor Annie."

He's heard about that. Everyone has. They ran the story in the paper, and on the five o'clock news. Annie went crazy, trashing a cafe after being triggered by something, he's not sure what. She tossed a chair through the cafe window, and kept screaming and screaming until the cops took her away.

"They won't let me see her yet," Britta continues. "She's too unstable."

"And Pierce?" His chest tightens.

Britta purses her lips, her gaze falls to the floor. "Jeff, he…"

"Obviously." He doesn't let her finish, and for once she seems grateful for it. "After what happened to him, I didn't think he'd live too long."

"Jeff," Britta says, eyes narrowed. "You could show a little bit more tact."

"I think a person in my position is allowed to be discourteous."

She points at one of the flowers. "Geraniums," she says, changing the subject to something lighter. "I thought they'd look nice in your room. I'll put them near the window, so you can see them better."

"Great, now whenever I see them I'll think of you."

Britta smiles, one of those wry smiles he hasn't seen in a while. "That's the idea, Winger."

* * *

His apartment is dark and lonely.

He keeps it that way for about a week, refusing to turn on the lights, the TV, the stove. Anything with a switch, anything that requires effort, he leaves alone. He stays in bed mostly. The doctor told him the phantom limb pain would go away if he continued taking his meds, but it's still there. He still feels it.

He had brought Britta's dumb flower basket home with him, though they told him it wasn't a good idea. The geraniums are wilted and brown. Either he's too lazy to throw them out, or he actually wants them regardless of whether they're dead or not.

_Whenever I see them I'll think of you._

* * *

Someone's knocking on his bedroom door. KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. Too loud.

"Open up, Winger!" More knocking. He goes to cover his head with a pillow, but his arm isn't there to do it. That's worse than the pain - the feeling his arm is still there.

"I swear, I'm going to kick this door down if you don't open up." Britta's shouting now. "And I'm wearing my extra tall boots today. The ones with the spiky heels? You remember—"

He opens the door with enough force to almost pull it off its hinges. Britta shuts up, though she's obviously annoyed.

"What?" he snarls.

"I forgot how much of a grump you are in the morning."

"How did you get in here?"

Britta shows him a key. "You never took it back. I took _that_ as an invitation."

He hates seeing her here. He hates how she's the one who always sees him at his most vulnerable. He hates how he can't stop thinking about her. Those damn geraniums. He should have left them, tossed them out.

"I see you still haven't made your bed since the last time I was here." She somehow slithers past him and is poking her head around like she usually does.

"And you're here because…?"

"You keep asking me that," Britta muses. "I figured you'd be happy to see me."

"As happy as I'd be with a gun to my head."

Britta's found the geraniums, the basket placed haphazardly near his dresser. He avoids the sneaky look she sends him from across the room. He's actually embarrassed, goddamn her. Though he plays it cool like always.

"Good thing I brought another," she says. "It's in the living room."

This arrangement is smaller than the geraniums, but he can tell she put a bit more time into it. She could do this sort of thing for a living if she wasn't so stubborn. Her heart is set on being a therapist, and when Britta's heart is set on something it's impossible to make her forget about it.

"Honeysuckle and primroses," she tells him.

"You made this yourself, right?"

Britta flushes, jaw tightening. "No. I didn't. I-I bought it from this dumb flower shop on the way to your apartment. What sort of person do you think I am?"

"Please, Britta, I can tell you made it."

"I didn't!" she exclaims. "I'm not some frou-frou housewife who spends all her time making stupid flower baskets."

Had she forgotten? He feels a bit stupid for remembering something like that. Overly-sentimental more like it. Back when they were still sneaking out, pretending like they didn't have a relationship, she used to tell him secrets.

"My mother was obsessed with marriage and everything related to it," she told him one night. It was warm for November, and the two of them were spread out in a tangle of expensive bed sheets. He kept his hands to himself, not one to stroke hair, or touch cheeks.

"She would force me to make these terrible flower arrangements. Which flowers complement each other? Which flowers fit this theme? Which are summer flowers? Winter flowers? No, no that's not right." Britta sighed at the memory. "My brothers never had to do shit like that. No. Daniel was studying to be a doctor. I could've been a doctor too."

Women usually tried to talk to him after sex, but Britta was the only one he actually listened to. He never said anything. Just let her talk until she fell asleep.

"Fine," he says. He should stop thinking about the past. It's a terrible place to live in. But the present isn't much better.

"Fine what?"

"Fine, you didn't put together this ridiculous flower arrangement, and fine, you aren't a frou-frou housewife, though I doubt any housewives are walking around in stripper heels and leather jackets."

Britta purses her lips, and for a moment he's forgotten about everything's that gone wrong. But then his phantom limb sears with pain, and he breaths sharply through his teeth.

"Jeff, are you..?"

"Just go," he says, scowling at her. "Leave the key."

She doesn't leave the key.

* * *

Pierce's funeral is a miserable affair, though it's not like he's expecting a carnival. The only attendees are himself, the other members of the remaining study group, and a woman who he can only assume is one of the seven ex-wives.

He can feel Britta's eyes on him the entire time. There's a dark streak of blue in her hair, and a melancholy look in her eyes to match. He wants to take her hand, hold her against him, but he's not that guy. He's too closed-off for touching, and sweetness, and sincerity. Besides, you can't hold someone with just one arm.

* * *

He's truly angry for the first time in over a month, and it's Abed's doing. All that talk of dark timelines pushed him over the edge. This isn't a game. It's a reality they're all dealing with, and there isn't an easy way of fixing it. He'll never be a whole person again. No one will adore a broken man.

Britta follows him out of the study room, just as upset as he is, though she's more upset _at_ him.

"I'm sure he doesn't mean it," Britta says. "This is Abed's way of dealing with what happened."

"Putting your remedial psychology classes to use, aren't you?" he says, voice thick with contempt.

"You're being an asshole."

"I think I have a right to."

"We're all hurt, Jeff. Not just you."

"Again, _one wash-away streak of blue hair._"

He expects her to scream at him, go off on some metaphor filled rant, but instead she breaks down sobbing. He doesn't know how to react to a crying woman, especially if the woman is Britta.

"I'm trying to be the tough one, okay?" She covers her face with her hands, probably mortified at having him see her cry. "I'm trying to keep everyone happy and okay, but it's too hard! I hate it. I hate seeing everyone like this."

If he were any other guy he would take her by the wrist, pull her close, but he's not. So he stands there, awkward and uncomfortable, and watches her cry, her body shaking with every sob.

"What happened?" she says. A question he's been asking ever since he woke up in that hospital bed. "Is this something we deserve?"

* * *

The honeysuckle and primroses have wilted into crunchy brown petals. He can't bring himself to throw them away. He remembers her crying, and how he didn't do anything about it. Classic Winger.

He starts to believe Abed was right. This _is_ the darkest timeline. And it gives him something to think about other than Britta, and the stump. He wonders what his prime timeline self is doing. What sort of shit is _he_ having to deal with? Whatever it is, it's trivial compared to everything else happening here.

It's raining again. _Tat-tat-tat-tat_. His phantom limb aches. He thinks about Britta.

From the bedroom he hears the front door open, an umbrella being shaken, boots stomping on the hardwood.

"Damn it's freezing out there," Britta says. "Shit, it's soaked."

She's standing there in his living room, dripping wet, holding an umbrella in one hand, and a flower basket in the other.

"Red tulips," she says when she notices him watching her. She holds up the basket, smiling. The streak in her hair has faded. "Your apartment needs a bit more color, don't you think?"

"You're getting my floor all wet," he chides her, taking the basket and putting it next to the last arrangement she made for him. "I'll get you a towel. Wait right there, and don't move."

She doesn't listen. When he returns from the bathroom she's stripped down to a t-shirt and underpants, sitting on his couch, eyes closed. He throws the towel at her head.

"Put your clothes back on," he says, sitting beside her.

"My jeans are all clingy." She smirks. "Am I making you nervous?"

"I've seen you naked, Britta. I'm sure there's nothing else left for me to be nervous about."

They fall into an uncomfortable silence, Britta glancing at him every few seconds. She sighs and says, "We should get this over with, don't you think? I mean, it's inevitable."

"What's that?"

She closes the gap between them, her bare, pale legs straddling him on the couch. Her breath is warm against his neck. He hasn't been this close to a woman in a long time. Not since… not since he ended things with Britta the first time.

"I'm sorry," she says softly into the cotton of his shirt. "I'm sorry about everything."

She could apologize for the rest of her life, but it wouldn't fix anything. But the weight of her against him, the familiar feeling of her fingers, and the calming sensation of her lips on his - that can make it easier to forget.

He can't carry her to bed like he used to, and they're both too lazy to get up, so the couch will have to suffice. She touches his right shoulder, where the stump is, and he freezes, an icy chill washing over him.

"Jeff…" she says.

He replies with a kiss, the fingers of his left hand moving deftly through her hair. His need for human affection outweighs everything else. For now he forgets about what happened. He forgets this is the darkest timeline, and nothing will ever be the same. For now Britta is his constant. Britta is _here_, with him, and he knows she'll never leave.

* * *

"Red tulips."

"Hm?"

"Do you know what they mean?"

"Of course not. When would I have the time to care about flower meanings?"

"Jerk."

"Just tell me what they mean."

"Red tulips mean… they mean undying love. Stupid, right?"

"I never took you for the sentimental type. Maybe you are turning into a frou-frou housewife."

"Ugh. Shut up, Winger."


End file.
